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Thursday, 6 February 2014

Blood Cry

The serenity in Abruzzo valley lies shattered. Vineyards framed by weathered stone houses unveil sad songs to a little San Pietro della Ienca church. Dogs sniff for stolen blood along ski slopes, the smell of iron like death in the air. A pontiff’s love in gold and glass soars like a speck of dust astir. Every new year in blood- soaked cassocks, every papacy distraught.